


out of the dark

by pipistrelle



Series: there is a season [6]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, Fluff, mentions of Crane, mentions of Rosethorn's past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday cake, compromises, and memories on Longnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	out of the dark

**Author's Note:**

> based on the prompt "dessert". I took some liberties with the Longnight ceremonies at Winding Circle, based on this bit from Briar's Book:
> 
> "'Longnight?' It was the hammer of winter, the night when all fires were doused and everyone prayed for the sun to rise."
> 
> This is another one set well before the events of the Circle series.

“What a mess!” Rosethorn declared, voice loud in the still air as she stepped out onto the balcony.

Lark jumped, grabbing onto the railing she'd been leaning on to keep her balance. She had chosen the third floor of the Hub as a refuge from the chaos of the Longnight celebrations going on below -- it was a scrying room, cloaked in sound-dampening spells that cushioned it from the noise of all the dedicates and novices gathered in one place. It was also insulated from the sound of approaching footsteps, which meant she'd had no warning that someone had come looking for her.

Thankfully, that someone was only Rosethorn. Lark relaxed, leaning against the balcony railing again with a half-smile. "It's a celebration, Rosie. If it were perfectly organized, no one could have any fun."

Rosethorn came to stand next to her, brushing her shoulder against Lark's. “So what are you doing out here? I thought you at least _could_ have some fun in the midst of all this... gabbling.”

“I wanted some fresh air,” Lark said absently. “Besides, you looked like you were having plenty of fun with Ambrose and Lilac earlier.”

“How those idiots got dedicated, I’ll never know. Mila and the Green Man preserve us all from the bumbling mishaps of the ignorant!”

“From your lips to the gods’ ears,” said Lark. Her faint smile faded as she glanced over and saw Rosethorn hugging herself, huddling in her habit against the cold. Without speaking, Lark reached out and drew a counterclockwise spiral with one fingertip on the small of Rosethorn’s back. A shiver of familiar power prickled across Rosethorn’s skin; her habit shifted, growing thicker and fluffier as the weave rearranged itself to provide a little more insulation against the winter night.

“Better?” Lark asked.

“Yes. Thank you,” said Rosethorn. She was warmer, though she wasn't sure whether she owed it to the magic or Lark's touch.

A stir of motion on the winding path below caught their attention; a stream of kitchen workers, mostly in Air yellow and Fire red with a smattering of novices, came crowding up to the Hub doors, chattering loudly as they all scrambled to get inside.

“I don’t see Gorse anywhere,” Rosethorn observed. Many of the figures were portly, but none was the instantly recognizable shape of the head cook.

“He’ll be the last one out,” said Lark. “If the kitchens must go dark, he’ll put it off as long as he possibly can.” Lark grinned at Rosethorn and reached into one of her wide sleeves. “That reminds me -- I have something for you.”

“Oh, not you, too,” Rosethorn grumbled, cross and not bothering to hide it. “I suppose Crane told you -- as if he hasn’t been told enough to keep that beak of his out of other peoples’ business.”

“Yes, Crane told me it’s your birthday,” said Lark. She pulled out a small packet tied in green cloth and rested it on the railing between them. “He also told me, at great length and with a bit too much relish, how much you absolutely _hate_ receiving gifts, and how it’s such a _shame_ that you let such an occasion go to waste instead of letting your colleagues celebrate you as you deserve. He wanted to present you with one of his hothouse flowers, in front of everyone, as a token of his esteem.”

Lark laughed at the look of horrified disgust on Rosethorn’s face. “I thought you might feel that way,” she said, handing over the packet. “I was able to talk him out of it, thank Mila of the Grain. This was a compromise.”

Rosethorn pulled on the tie and the folds of cloth fell open, revealing a small, doughy cake embedded with nuts and berries from the Anderran hills, glistening with a layer of melted sugar. It was a festival cake from home -- from the long, bitterly cold nights when darkness came early and they would sit around the fire, Niva and her brothers begging Father for tales of the terrifying creatures that lived in the forest, and the goblins with their treasure under the hills. Nivalin had been nine before she’d understood that the stories and cakes and mulled wine were for the Longnight festival celebrated by the whole village, and not just for her birthday.

Rosethorn hadn’t been homesick for Nivalin in a long time, and she wasn’t going to start now, but she couldn’t keep from smiling. Trust Lark to find the sweetness among all her bitter memories of home, without even realizing what she did.

Rosethorn carefully broke the cake in pieces, offering half to Lark. “How was this a compromise?”

“I had to get you a cake -- he didn’t say what size." Lark accepted her half of the cake with a smile and nibbled at it, turning to look out across Winding Circle.

Rosethorn followed Lark’s gaze to see the lamps strung across the front of the Fire temple going out. A red-robed initiate paced the length of the building, gathering the flames from each wick into a ball she held in her cupped hands. Another initiate was collecting the fires that burned in the Air temple; Rosethorn knew the same was happening in the Water and Earth temples, though they were hidden from her by the bulk of the Hub.

“At home we used to keep the fires burning all night,” she said between bites. The sticky-sweet taste on her tongue was making her mawkish; part of her disdained her own foolishness, but she trusted Lark not to read too much into such softness, or think less of her for it. “It wasn’t much, but it was something to look at, at least. That’s what I hate about having to celebrate Longnight -- no matter the rituals, outside it’s all so _lifeless_.”

“Depends on where you are,” Lark said, almost dreamily, clearly caught up in memories of her own. “In Khapik, the longest night of the year is the liveliest -- the _yaskedasi_ dance from dusk until dawn, all through the district, painted up like fire spirits and goddesses, with flowers in their hair. Of course, it isn’t so cold there,” she added, coming back to the earth. “And I spent my last Longnight in the Mire -- just about the most lifeless place I’ve ever been.”

Rosethorn scowled at the thought of the life Lark had left to come to Winding Circle -- a cold, solitary life, alone in a rickety garret with only her needle and thread to pay her way, and mold in the walls that made it hard to breathe. Of course, Rosethorn hadn’t known Lark then, but on her trips to help the poor and sick of the Mire she had seen plenty of girls and women wasting away to nothing in lives like that. Thinking of it made her burn with anger; not a cleansing flame but a sick, impotent rage like despair, the kind that drove her to bury herself in her work to distract herself from the thought of the thousands of people and plants that she could never help.

 There was no work now, but there was Lark, solid and soft, as full of life as a new sapling in fallow ground. Lost for words, Rosethorn wrapped one arm around Lark’s waist and rested her head on the other woman’s shoulder.

 “All I meant to say,” Lark murmured into her hair, “is that it doesn’t have to be lifeless -- and it isn’t, you know. Not with you.”

 Suddenly self-conscious, Rosethorn turned her face into Lark’s shoulder to hide the blush she could feel beginning to burn in her cheeks. “Whether I’m here or not doesn’t make any difference to the fact that it’s the dead of winter,” she grumbled.

 “On the contrary, my dear. It makes all the difference in the world." Rosethorn raised her head to argue only to find Lark grinning at her, the impish, teasing grin that gave the lie to her somber tone of voice.

"That's silly," Rosethorn groused, but then Lark was kissing her, tasting of sugar-sweetness and honey and _home._ Her hands slid down Rosethorn's shoulders to the small of her back, tugging her closer until the Hub bell shook them apart.

"You're wrong," Rosethorn said, in the hushed silence that fell after the bells had stopped. "It's a dreary, miserable, benighted holiday --"

Lark kissed her again.

"--but, all right, maybe not entirely unbearable," Rosethorn said when Lark broke away. "There, are you happy?"

"I'm happy if you are, my love," Lark said with a laugh.

It _was_ a miserable holiday, Rosethorn thought -- and the gods' own joke, as the birthday of a plant mage! -- but perhaps not entirely lifeless. Not with Lark, with her talent for finding unexpected sweetness in the dreariest places, and her laugh almost as bright as a daffodil in bloom.

In the hushed silence that followed the ringing of the bells, the Fire Dedicates had started to sing their hymns to strengthen and bring back the sun. Rosethorn would happily have stayed on the balcony all night, but she let Lark take her hand and pull her back inside.


End file.
